You Don't Cross That Line
by Krillo the Singing Mushroom
Summary: The Heroes are slowly breaking. Second person because I didn't want to pick any one hero- could be Annabeth, Percy, Reyna, Jason, etc. Freeverse poem style, sort of, maybe, not really, ish? Trigger warnings inside, please read responsibly. Rating is high T right now, if someone thinks I should raise it, please review.


**Trigger warnings (which I've never done before so I hope I'm doing this right): Insinuated suicidal thoughts, depression, attempted cutting, etc.**

**In the ff.n guidelines, it says that interactive/second person fics or stories intended to include the reader aren't allowed; This is not intended to be an interactive fic. This is intended to be written the best way it can be for the thoughts and feelings of the character to be portrayed to the reader.**

**I don't own PJO. **

**-Lah!**

You stare in the mirror, wondering what it's all for.

It's useless.

It's meaningless.

They praise a hero, pray to the gods for more- but they don't care.

They never care.

They never care about the hero as a person- a person who feels, who longs, who wishes desperately to cry, sometimes even to die-

but all they can see is strength, because that's all you let them see.

If you have anything to say about it, it's all they ever will.

But you stare back at your own desperate eyes, trying desperately to stay together, and you know- you know, in your heart of hearts, that it's not working.

You stare down the dark pits beneath your eyes as if they have their own and will retaliate- but of course they don't (but then why are they still staring you down just as hard?)- and you know that you're falling apart, that you're tearing at the seams, that you can't and won't last much longer-

But then you think about them all, standing outside waiting for you, wishing you would hurry up and come out so they can shower you with well-intended praise and tear you down some more.

You know they don't mean to.

You know they're just trying to help, to show how much they appreciate everything you've done, but it's _killing you slowly _

_and _

_they _

_can't _

_even _

_see _

_it._

At first it calms you a little bit, but then you get _angry_, which is never a good thing, because when you're _angry_, you don't _think-_

and then before you know it you're on the ground and there's something sharp in your hand and you're not even sure what it is or where it came from and your hand is shaking, holding it over just a finger- _just a little finger, no real harm, nothing wrong with it, just a little cut, just a tiny slice to release this pent up angryangryangryANGRYHATEHATEHATEHATEHATE-_

and then you freeze.

You can't go down this path.

You know you can't take this tiny step, this little hop into that world, because

_You_

_Know_

_You_

_Won't _

_Come_

_Back_...

You put the sharp thing, whatever it was, down and sit there, shaking.

You're not sure if you're crying or just frozen, but you stay there, thinking about what you almost did, that barrier you almost broke, and what would have happened if you hadn't stopped yourself.

It's not until at least an hour has gone by that you stand up and brush yourself off, check the mirror again-

You don't look like you've been crying, which is good, but the bruises under your eyes are staring at you again, so you look away quickly.

You change into fresh clothes, not wanting people to wonder what wrinkled the others.

You finally venture out into the sunlight, mask firmly in place once more.

They don't see anything off about you, don't notice the bags that have been winning your staring contests recently, and just the way you would have it.

You didn't go there today, so it's another battle won.

It's a war you know you'll eventually lose, but each day, every battle, makes you feel a little bit stronger than the looming end, even as your strength is fading and you're running on prayers and miracles now instead of fumes-

and for now, you feel safe in that knowledge.

You know that today, at least, you stayed on the right side of the barrier.

You know more certainly that if you don't do so tomorrow, you'll never _stop_ making those _tiny, little, doesn't really matter, just to release a little bit_ cuts, and that you can't hold out forever, but for now,

_You don't cross that line._


End file.
